​Darwood & Smitty - Chapter 2

The men hopped into their van, buckled in, and looked at each other. Eli’s magnetic field blipped on, lifting the vehicle a couple feet off the ground, and the van hover-spun toward the roads before accelerating through the parking lot.

“I don’t like it. Not at all,” said Smitty.

“Well what would you like?” Darwood demanded with the irritated patience of an old friend. “We get to meet the president face to face, get a cushy ten minutes on the job while Eli gets us to the Apex, and for some reason you don’t like it.”

“Why did the last delivery team fail? What’s so hard about delivering a package if the president is actually looking for it — especially when a tip is involved? Something screwy about that.”

“Level three,” said Darwood as the van reached the ramp. Eli headed up to the deliveryway and burst into a cruise.

“What are you doing, Darwood? You want to lose us money on this trip?”

The road system was a whole lot different than it had been a couple decades before. Back in the day, people had driven cars on wheels and used oil to fuel the things. This, in spite of great efforts to put green cars onto the roads and develop better public transit systems.

Hybrids and electric cars were gaining momentum in the 2010s, but the press eventually rose up against them — defunct batteries were crowding landfills said the media. This was going to hurt the environment worse than oil. And coincidentally, oil prices were falling.

Meanwhile, mass transit was failing in many cities because of stalled public funds, which was just bad timing considering the new biospheres being privately funded to house people like factory farm cattle. National governments across the globe decided to address the homeless problem by awarding public cash to those who came with the most affordable solution. Literally taking inspiration from the beef industry, CityCorp created hulking, self-contained housing units — huge spheres that would blanket city landscapes and attract the poor from all around.

As the first were installed, these cities’ populations swelled while their suburbs dwindled; city resources came under greater demand; and mass transit — expected as a piece of the puzzle that would make it all work — suddenly lacked the funds for completion. With oil prices falling, gas kept being used with, as they say, reckless abandon; and cars necessarily became more abundant inside these cities. It was a happy combination that propelled the problem of smog, and car accidents became practically epidemic in these locations as people got high on the glop of engine fumes hanging in the air.

When the global government took form in 2020, life from the rest of the system made itself known. Considering the technology of Earth’s planetary neighbors, you’d think the smog problem wouldn’t last. But there were precisely two problems standing in the way: the Martians, who had fits of laughter about us using oil, were mercenaries. All they liked to do was trade. And they had plenty of oil they wanted to get rid of. With our supplies starting to trickle, they were happy to feed the addiction.

But a little more grievously, the Venusians had tried presenting a magnetic grid solution for powering our vehicles. And they presented to the wrong politicians, who were in the wrong pockets and saw to it that such a thing wouldn’t happen on their watch. It took a while for the Venusians to finally understand, but when they did, it was an easy answer: give the politicians more power than oil was giving them. Let New York raise funds from every car tapping into the magnetic grid. Then the oil cats couldn’t pull their strings and — with so many funds available — New York could cut back on taxes, providing relief to the people, and still fund extra programs.

It was a nice idea. In fact, it was a great idea, and put in place by 2030. But of course the taxes weren’t lowered. The government just reached its arms out further for a kind and smothering embrace.

It’s a long way of saying that the roads were metal now and, looked at from above, appeared to be so many cheese graters jammed end-to-end; this, because of the myriad holes across each section of road. The holes, it was said, were for drainage, and there was no question they worked in that way. But there were those who swore that they’d be used to release gas “when the government wants to take over.”

“But they’ve already taken over. They control everything!” said the opposition.

“Well … they want to control us more,” murmured the first side. Even Smitty, who was suspicious of everything, doubted this position. There really wasn’t much more power to take.

The new system used magnetic fields to propel the cars and, by the use of magnetic polarities, to cushion and even prevent most accidents. (Any child who ever played with magnets, propelling one around the kitchen table with another, knew that it was hard to make them collide; but not until the new road grid did we think to apply this to cars.)

Every vehicle required a permit card to run, and most people held only a basic permit, allowing them to run on road levels one and two. On level one, known as the streets, vehicles hovered a mere three feet off the ground, and this used the least amount of energy, which was generated by regional sources and provided through the magnetic interface. The roads themselves monitored the energy use of each vehicle and charged this to the permit card. Of course side one was back at it, insisting that this was done to monitor where everyone was; and side two simply said, “You wish you were that important.”

Level two was known as the skyways, and replaced the highways of the past. Here, a car was propelled to eighteen feet and could accelerate to 200 miles an hour — dangerous if not for the magnetic cushions. Skyway use cost plenty more than street use, but that meant faster travel and less traffic for those who had lobbied for its price structure. Those who could afford it.

Level three was for long-distance delivery and took place at about fifty feet. It allowed for speeds comparable to old-time jets, making this level a good deal faster than level two. But this level also drew on the entire grid below so that delivery vehicles at this height didn’t have to stick to pre-planned routes; they were free to take the most direct path to a place. Of course level three drew plenty of energy and cost a pretty buck.

Level four was reserved for emergency vehicles and police when they had to move. A level four permit would shoot a vehicle up to 100 feet and hurdle them a little faster than level three. It was a simple matter to reach any emergency or catch anyone breaking the law who was using the lower levels to escape.

Finally, there was level five — the Govway. It was strictly military, but made speed junkies sloppy with drool to think of those lucky dogs who could thunder along at near-Mach 3. Cruise height here was 1000 feet, and anything above that was self-propelled — which meant ships. The Govway was basically designed for global defense against any extra-planetary threat, and of course to protect the nations against any rebel groups.

Smitty’s concern about the cost, as they launched to level three, wasn’t unfounded. Taking a truck to level three for too long could bankrupt someone on his salary. It wasn’t designed for most deliveries. But it was still there for a reason: some people would pay the premium if a package was hot.

“Look,” said Darwood, “You want to call Emma again and ask her what level we’ve been paid for? Because I don’t. But this delivery is for the president. If this package is so important, I sort of doubt it’s going level one or two, and if we get there late, we lose the job and the tip. I’m not about to see this one disappear.” Smitty shrugged. It sounded right. Bothering Emma a second time might be worse than losing a week’s salary. “Anyway, that’s probably why they had to get new delivery guys. There were probably a couple of fellas like you who tried delivering on a lower level and they got canned for showing up an hour late. That’s all. Because it’s like you say — if the president’s looking for the package, why would it be hard to deliver?”

“One of two reasons,” reasoned Smitty. “First, it’s not that important; the president isn’t looking for it; and in fact we’re conspiring with rebels and we’re going to get ourselves caught. Or second, because if it’s this important to the president, it’s that important to rebel groups too. If they know what we’re trying to deliver, they could go all out to stop us.”

“Hmm.” Darwood chewed on that one. “Well, we never heard any recent stories of trucks under attack.”

“True. But wouldn’t the president try to cover up something like that?”

“I guess.” Darwood hated when he ended up agreeing with Smitty, who he knew was a little smarter but who was always too suspicious. It’s how I’ve survived this long, Smitty liked to say. But of course that ignored the fact that Darwood had survived too, and that neither of them had faced much peril through the years. They’d known each other since second grade, so Smitty couldn’t tell Darwood any differently.

“Well, you’re not going to dampen it for me,” Darwood said at last as they sped over traffic fifty feet below. “We’ll make it to the Apex in a few minutes and I’ll meet the president with or without you.”

“Oh, it’ll be with me if we make it. Just don’t kid yourself that the whole thing is so straightforward.”

The van cruised on and soon dropped down a ramp to level one traffic, then spent several minutes slipping through New York City till it reached its destination. The Apex, home of Earth’s president and centerpiece to the world’s government.

Downtown New York — from the financial district through Central Park and up to 95 — had undergone dramatic transformation after winning its place as Earth’s capital. While its population swelled with politicians, lobbyists, hired goons, and every possible opportunity seeker, several blocks surrounding the Senate and Apex offered an eerie kind of quiet in the midst of so busy a metropolis. In fact, the serenity of the tree-lined streets — nearly empty of traffic — had things feeling like a small-town neighborhood, and almost anyone would have called it “peaceful.” But when you knew that it was quiet like this because of security restrictions, 24-hour snipers, and every kind of privacy invasion you could dream up, it wasn’t quite the white-picket-fence dream.

If you used the streets of these few blocks at all, you had business there; because the moment you hit them, you were tracked, and if you left without doing business, that was too suspicious. You’d be chased down and stopped. And jailed if the officer was having a bad digestion day, which seemed eternally the case with the Jovian police force.

So as giddy as Darwood had been on the way, when Eli reached the quiet of these streets, he became more somber and wary — and knew this was how Smitty probably felt most of the time. But Eli didn’t hesitate. It was easy to work these empty streets, and he simply pulled up before the Apex, set himself down, and shut off his magnetic field once more. The men got out and both looked at the place.

The Apex wasn’t quite a pyramid, but was nearly so. Its base was a bit more like a standard building, straight walls and all. But they did lean in a bit, and after four floors, the rest of the building leaned in further and closed things off as a true pyramid, coming to a singular point at the top.

“Kind of magnificent and kind of creepy, isn’t it?” Darwood observed.

“Yeah. Not much use to a pyramid shape unless you’re into some kind of ritual magic. Or you’re just flaunting the whole all-seeing eye thing, eh? Why would you want rooms with slanted walls?”

“Makes you wonder if you can even have built-in bookshelves,” mused Darwood. “And think about hanging pictures!”

Smitty started to laugh, but then his smile disappeared. Six men, each with one hand touching the base of his LightToob®, were jogging toward the two. “Stand where you are!” the captain called out. “You’re on restricted property. Back up to your van, turn around, and place your hands against it.”

“What’re you talking about — we’ve got a delivery,” said Darwood.

“Shut up, Dimwood,” said Smitty with half his mouth as he started backing to the van.

“But they can see that we’re from Earth Express.”

“You’re not the normal delivery guys, you’re here early, and we weren’t informed of any subs today. So back up!” the captain called as the group slowed to a walk and pulled their LightToobs.

“But we’re Darwood and Smitty! He’s expecting our package.”

The captain shot one hand into the air to halt his group. “Darwood and Smitty? Why didn’t you say so? The president is expecting you.”

Darwood and Smitty exchanged confusion, which seemed to be happening a lot today. “Isn’t that what I just said?” Darwood murmured to his comrade. But the two shrugged and followed the security team up the walkway and into the Apex.

Security screening was quick with the Gotcha!® scanner, and after they were through, they were led to a reception room outside the president’s office and seated. Arriving here, Darwood was suddenly less excited about meeting the president. Because it was clear that his secretary would make better company.

“Mr. Garfunkle, Mr. Jones,” she said, extending a strong, lean arm to them as they entered. “I’m Mary. I understand the president’s looking forward to meeting with you, but he’s caught up in a call just now. Can I get you anything?”

“It’s, uh … Darwood. Darwood and Smitty,” said Darwood. “I mean, we don’t have to go by last names, you know?” He smiled. She was really … chiseled? Ah, it felt like an awful, stupid word to come to mind. She wasn’t what Darwood would call hot. And not just pretty. But every feature was defined and feminine. Her hair and eyes were dark, but her skin was pale; her jaw strong; her frame somehow solid while still shaped just so. He was keenly attracted to her in a moment, but it was different in a way he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t exactly romantic. More like he wanted to understand something that was hidden. Like he was trying to know what her dark eyes concealed.

She smiled back. “Darwood,” she said as she shook his hand. “And Smitty,” she said, shaking his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Not just another delivery day, is it?”

“No ma’am,” said Smitty. “But if we have to meet with the president to do our job, we’ll make that sacrifice.”

Mary laughed. “Well I hope you guys will make that sacrifice on a regular basis. When you’re president, you have your hands full finding people that know how to get things done.” She looked at them a moment, as if assessing how much she could trust them. “You figure, on top of all the political issues President Keane’s tackled in his first few months, he’s had to fill every kind of position along the way. And that’s not easy when most of the candidates are used to politics as usual. No one expected the president to really start dismantling the old power structure.”

“Myself included,” said Smitty. “All just empty political promises as far as I could tell. It’s still hard to believe he’s really doing it, pushing through this legislation on special interests and lobbying. What is New York going to do with itself?” Mary smiled.

They waited about fifteen minutes before the president walked into the room through an open doorway. And was he awesome! It was no wonder the people — who generally voted for superficial reasons and those who said they would “clean up New York” — had put this man into office three months back. Tall, at 6'3"; solid across his frame; short black hair, just a little wiry; and absolutely piercing blue eyes. Those who only saw him on TV probably had little sense of the real presence he carried.

“Gentlemen,” said the president as they stood from a couch and shook his hand. “I’m so glad you’re here. Why don’t you join me in my office so we can chat more privately?”

Smitty’s eyes bugged wide and Darwood’s mouth hung just ajar. So they could chat? What was in this package? They followed the man to his office where he closed the door behind them, gestured them to sit in some massive and cushy chairs, then leaned himself against the front of the presidential desk. “First of all, I presume you have the package?”

“Yes,” said Darwood. “Right here, sir.” He handed the thing to the president who opened it, looked inside, then closed it and set it on his desk.

“Excellent,” said the president. “Now, let’s get down to business. What you’ve delivered is important to me, and I’ll need a package just like it delivered every week from the same location. Is that something you can do?”

“Yes,” said Darwood and Smitty together.

“Good. There will be a tip involved each week …”

“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Smitty. And Darwood almost groaned. He knew what this was. “We’re not supposed to accept tips. No tip necessary, sir.” Boy, Darwood just wanted to get up and kick his friend, but he doubted the president would find that too couth.

“I appreciate your honesty, but I will contact your company and insist. When you leave, my secretary will credit both of your cards immediately. It will not be an issue with Earth Express.” Darwood was tickled more than pink.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but why the tip? I mean, all we’ve done is brought a package, same as we do all the time.”

The president looked his way. “And always the funny man without a care in the world, aren’t you Darwood Garfunkle?” Smitty grinned and chuckled. “Do you gentlemen know why you were so thoroughly researched before getting this job?”

​“To make sure we weren’t a security threat?” asked Darwood.

“Part one, yes. But I’ve learned a whole lot more about the two of you than that. I’ve learned plenty because I don’t just want to know that you’re not a threat. I want to know that I can trust you. You, Mr. Garfunkle …”

“Darwood, please,” said Darwood.

The president paused and grinned. “You, Darwood, are not so savvy when it comes to politics, but you’re loyal, confident, and a good man. These are rare qualities to the degree you have them. I appreciate that.

“And you, Mr. —” He paused on his own this time.

“Smitty is fine, sir.”

“You, Smitty, have a sharp political mind that isn’t generally appreciated because … well, because most people deny the reality of politics. They are very sheltered, aren’t they Smitty? They want to pretend that power doesn’t corrupt. They want to pretend that conspiracies don’t exist, and that only radical nutcases believe in them. They want to believe that government runs the way it says it runs, and that special interests aren’t the real threat that they are. Even now, Mr. Jones, I’ll bet I know what you’re thinking.”

“What’s that?” said Smitty, looking intently on the president. It was a little unnerving to have a stranger — and the man with the most power in the world — understand him this well. Unnerving, because there is far less protection against those who know you.

“You’re so suspicious — and often rightly so — that even now you’re wondering if I’m telling you all of this so that I can sort of butter you up and get you on my side before asking something a little shady of you, right? And now that I’m admitting this openly, I’m obviously setting myself up as a really good guy, which furthers the suspicion, doesn’t it?” Smitty nodded, dolefully. He didn’t at all like being understood this well. “Well, you have to be careful, my friend. You see how cyclical it gets, don’t you? You see how you can end up never trusting anyone in the world? Maybe not even Darwood in the end? Be careful of that road. But use it to your advantage.”

“Yes sir. And, how am I supposed to do that?”

​“The way you always do to avoid getting yourself caught. It’s why I can count on the two of you to get me this package every week. You must know that I have begun creating enemies here in New York and around the world. You must know that I have been keeping my campaign promises, rooting out the special interests that are ripping our globe apart at its seams and crafting the coming legislation that will minimize their power for good.

“Those who are driven by money don’t stand very long for those who want to expose them. They’re already trying to shut me down, and it’s only going to get worse. And by the way … if that doesn’t give you reason to trust me, Smitty, then I suppose nothing will.”

“In fact, sir, I’ve been awfully impressed by your work so far — and of course, as you know, I keep wondering when the dirt is going to show.”

The president laughed out loud with a very broad mouth. “Absolute honesty. I love it! So, this is why the two of you will be tipped — because there is admittedly a challenge involved. I’m going to give you an advantage, though.” The president stood, walked around his desk to the drawers, and dug through one of them for a moment. He pulled out a card. “This is for you.”

Now they were Darwood’s eyes that bugged the most. “Level 5 — a Govway traffic card?”

“And energy paid, too. But used only in an emergency. Ideally, never. I would prefer that no one knows you’ve been given this. But if it comes down to it, use it, if it means getting me a package.”

“So this is more than just some software you look at for possible global defense applications.”

The president laughed again. “Is that what Mr. Halworth told you? Funny. He comes up with a different story every time. Anything to get a delivery team to believe him, I guess, until they first meet with me. It’s natural to doubt the circumstances until you understand why you were picked. I hope you understand the situation now and that I can rely on you for your help.”

“A Govway card, sir? You’d better believe you can rely on us!”

The president turned and stared. “Darwood ….”

“I know, sir. Only in emergencies. But now I’ll kind of hope that one comes along.”

​“Don’t you go creating one, Darwood.” He turned to Smitty. “Just think what you have to put up with every day!” The big man chuckled while Darwood and Smitty smiled at one another. It was incredible, really. They were joking with the president of the world, and all just for delivering a package.

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